


Consequences

by Star_Going_Supernova



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: 'Bendy' turned out to be kinda wise or something?, Alternate Universe, Brief mentions of gore, Gen, Henry is Tired and in Pain, I have no idea where this even came from, I love him, Inky Tunnel of Death, Spoilers, Transformation, angel!henry, haha oops things escalated, kinda sorta?, more like the aftermath of it (not Henry), my Henry is such a determined dude, no spoilers for Chapter 5, probably don't read if you don't want Chapter 4 spoiled, someone help him because no one does in this story, this is a story in which things turn out very differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14547414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Going_Supernova/pseuds/Star_Going_Supernova
Summary: What if no one had been there to kill ‘Alice’ before she reached Henry?





	1. Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t ask me why this was one of the first plot bunnies to smack me upside the head after watching gameplay for Chapter Four, just accept that it did.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~This is highly self-indulgent, so don't judge me.~~

Panting, Henry stumbled closer to the fallen Franken-Boris. His weapon—for all that a small pipe could be called a weapon—clattered to the debris-covered floor as he clutched at his injuries.

He’d been in a bad way from the moment he’d regained consciousness, and fighting a creature with hands larger than his chest and a punch that sent him rocketing off his feet across the room didn’t do his poor body any favors.

A number of gashes littered his arms and legs, his head was pounding a beat that sure sounded—and felt—a lot like a concussion, and now his chest ached fiercely from what had to be cracked, if not broken, ribs.

It tore his heart to shreds to have to fight Boris, regardless of how he’d been mutilated and Frankenstein-ed and possibly brainwashed or something, but Henry couldn’t help the relief that flooded though his aching body when the massive toon didn’t stir from where Henry’d finally knocked him down.

Distantly, he heard ‘Alice’ shrieking at him over the intercom, but he was too focused on the way Franken-Boris started to dissolve to pay attention to yet another plead for him to _just_ _die already_. He’d failed. He hadn’t been able to save Boris. And now he was alone again.

An out-of-place sound behind him caught his attention.

Henry turned away from Boris’s melting corpse just in time to intercept an enraged ‘Alice’s hands from their path towards his throat. With a hoarse cry—yeah, his ribs were probably broken—he was pushed down onto his back by her momentum.

Screaming unintelligible abuse at him, ‘Alice’ strained closer as he fought to push her off. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry could see his dropped pipe, and if he could just reach that, he might actually stand a chance against the furious angel. 

‘Alice’ shifted her position on top of him before he could come up with a plan, and her knee roughly collided with his chest. Bright, searing pain briefly blinded him, and for a disastrous second, Henry lost his grip on ‘Alice’s wrists. 

Her hands closed around his throat as she leaned forward, snarling. Henry strained against her, weakly tugging at her arms—and when that failed, he tried pushing at her shoulders. 

His body refused to react properly, though, too beat up from everything he’d faced since waking up in the wreckage of the fallen elevator. And now with a lack of oxygen added to the mix, it didn’t really surprise him when his vision started to dim.

• • • • •

Voices whispered around Henry, and it wasn’t hard to recognize the inky tunnel that surrounded him whenever he met his untimely demise in the studio. It was surprising, though. He’d expected that ‘Alice’ killing him would be different than when a Butcher gang member or a Searcher did it—just like he’d suspected that death by ‘Bendy’ would result in a permanent game-over.

Oh, wait.

Yeah, there it was. He wasn’t moving towards the light this time. Instead, the light was growing smaller as he sank deeper into the ink.

The voices grew louder.

Well, the least Henry could do was look at the bright side: at least the pain was gone. At least…

Nope, that was the only thing he could be optimistic about. And even that was flimsy at best, since he couldn’t have cared less about being in near-constant pain when Boris’s life was on the line. But he’d failed, he’d lost, he hadn’t made it in time to save his friend—so that meant it was okay to die, right? He could rest now, just give in and be done with the whole, twisted mess of a world that Joey or whoever was responsible had created. Right?

Henry could almost understand the voices now, so far from the light he’d fallen. With Boris dead, there was no one left to save.

Except that room full of lost, hopeless-looking ink-people. Except the mindless Searchers. Except the Butcher gang. Except maybe even ‘Bendy.’

Henry’s eyes snapped open—when had they closed?—and he stared up at the light. He’d failed to save Boris, but that didn’t mean he had to fail at saving anyone else. Death had meant nothing to him every time before this, and he refused to believe it couldn’t be just as meaningless now if he tried hard enough.

Ignoring the loud, insistent voices and the ominous tugging at his back, Henry stretched upwards with everything that he was. For a long moment, nothing changed and he only continued to sink deeper, but now that he’d made up his mind, Henry wasn’t going to give up that easily.

Joey might’ve just been spouting propaganda, but Henry had seen for himself the power of something like belief in this impossible studio. His eyes narrowed. If he tried hard enough, he could hear ‘Alice’ cackling in victory, taunting his body, celebrating her long-awaited victory over him.

 _Don’t count your chickens before they hatch_ , Henry thought. The light shimmered and grew.

The voices lost their intensity. ‘Alice’s laughter turned into a shriek of surprise and anger. He could practically feel her hatred for him, just because he meddled with her plans and had the audacity to survive.

Almost there, just a little farther, not much more now—

The last thing Henry heard as he finally faded away into the light was ‘Alice’ screech. Oddly enough, it sounded more fearful than angry.

• • • • •

When Henry opened his eyes, he was right where he’d been when he’d died. There was no splash of ink heralding his arrival, no Bendy statue staring him down like a benevolent god. More importantly, though, was the absence of a particular angel.

He was completely alone.

Looking around to try and spot ‘Alice,’ Henry sat up without pain, which was unusual. Dying only healed the killing blow, not other injuries he’d acquired. And now that he thought about it, he felt kinda strange.

Henry raised his right hand, intending to press it to his forehead. It never made it that far, though, as he froze in shock as soon as he caught sight of his skin.

Inky blackness covered his palm and wrist and the rest of his arm, all the way up to his elbow. Only his fingers were spared from the second knuckle to the tips, like a pair of fingerless gloves.

As he stared in bewilderment at his hands, something else caught his eye. Looking down, he spotted a slightly floppy, black bowtie at the base of his throat. But wait—he’d arrived to the studio wearing a red bowtie, and he’d lost it shortly after his fall into the music department.

So where had this one come from? Maybe his deeper trip into the ink?

Shaking his head, Henry rose to his feet. It was something he’d worry about later. For now, he wanted to get out of this haunted house and try to find the ink-people.

Following the tracks back the way he’d come—not in any way trusting the darkness that both Franken-Boris and ‘Alice’ had emerged from—Henry picked through the debris into the previous room. Movement to his left caught his attention, and with wide eyes, he looked up at the looming horned-and-haloed shadow of an angel.

Henry whipped around, only to be met with nothing. ‘Alice’ wasn’t in here either.

But then, where had the shadow come from? And moreover, there wasn’t even a light anywhere across the room that could possibly have cast the shadow, especially at the size it was—

Oh. Large shadows, like that one, were cast by light sources close to the object. Henry looked down.

At his feet was one of the spotlights, shining up at him.

Turning back to the wall, Henry watched the shadow move with him. He reached up and flinched at the presence of a horn jutting out from the side of his forehead, just above his temple. The halo, he discovered, was fully floating above his head.

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me apparently decided that it was high time I did something like this with 'Alice' instead of 'Bendy' for once. 
> 
> Any interest in seeing more of this?


	2. Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He propped the mirror up beneath one of the dilapidated room’s stronger lightbulbs and stepped back. 
> 
> “Oh boy,” he said, taking his reflection in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I’m so sorry this has taken so long. :(
> 
> Second of all, I’m really happy with how this turned out. :D I hope you guys enjoy it, and that it was worth the wait!

In the mess of Bendy-Land’s failed props, it wasn’t difficult to find a stack of mirrors, presumably for a maze or fun house of sorts. Finding one that wasn’t horribly distorted proved to be more of a challenge, but Henry eventually emerged, victorious, from the dusty pile.

He propped the mirror up beneath one of the dilapidated room’s stronger lightbulbs and stepped back.

“Oh boy,” he said, taking his reflection in.

In another time and place, he might’ve said he was merely wearing a particularly convincing costume. But this was a living nightmare, a hell of his old friend’s making, and that meant absolutely nothing good could come from this.

It was easy to see where ‘Alice’ had—what, merged?—with himself, resulting in some combination of the two of them. In fact, none of his new… _accessories_ were strictly hers or his.

The gloves were one of the more obvious ones. Hers had stretched up to her shoulders, covering her hands completely. His were fingerless and just barely reached his elbows. The bow-tie, too, was black where his original had been red and hers white. It wasn’t quite as floppy as ‘Alice’s either, and while it was positioned on his shirt the way a real one would be, there was something cartoony about it that made it clear that it was anything but proper.

And then, of course, the horns. His were slightly longer and more curved than hers had been, and instead of matching the studio’s typical sepia color, they were a pearly white. They looked strangely, startlingly _real_.

The same went for the halo. Henry’s, thankfully, wasn’t imbedded in his head but bobbed gently in the air a few inches above it. No matter how he moved, it unerringly followed, a soft white glow illuminating his hair.

His… very dark hair. Before he’d gone gray with age, his hair had been a rich brown, but now it was so dark he couldn’t tell if it was black or very, _very_ deep brown. As he leaned forward to try and see better, he finally noticed that the lines on his face were gone. It felt bizarre beyond belief to see his reflection looking so young again.

For the most part, the rest of him remained unchanged. The spots of color he’d worn now had a far more inky appearance, but his skin wasn’t ripped like ‘Alice’s had been. He still looked human—save for the horns, perhaps—and the overwhelming relief he felt at that realization made his legs weak.

So… now what? Henry hadn’t planned for anything further than _save Boris_ , and he’d failed at doing that.

“Nothing to do but retrace my steps, I suppose,” he said with a little sigh. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have too much trouble reaching the ground floor—though he didn’t know what he’d do with the elevator out of commission. Otherwise, with ‘Alice’ gone, and Sammy and the Projectionist presumably dead, that really only left him with Searchers and ‘Bendy’ to deal with.

Although… what would he even do if he made it out? He looked like he was wearing some weird combination of angel and devil costumes. But he couldn’t exactly stay at the studio. For one thing, it was full of creatures that continuously tried to kill him. And not even counting the fact that he just really wanted to go home, there was a distinct lack of basic human necessities that he’d managed to survive without so far.

That was just it, though. Henry was so tired of simply surviving. He wanted to be able to live again, not in fear or paranoia or with a weapon always at his side, but happy and safe.

He navigated the hallways automatically, too busy considering a new plan of action to pay much attention to where he was going. Shortly after turning a corner, movement up ahead dragged him out of his thoughts.

It was Edgar—gosh, he’d somehow completely forgotten about the Butcher gang—and Henry was completely unarmed as the mutilated toon turned towards him. Just as Henry’s body tensed to run, Edgar released a terrified sounding cry—one that Henry had never heard him make before—and tripped in his haste to spin around.

The way any polite person would when someone unceremoniously face-planted, Henry instinctively stepped forwards, a hand half-raising in an aborted gesture to help. In response, Edgar whimpered and curled up into a quivering ball right there on the floor, only a few feet away from Henry.

Stunned, Henry inched forward. “Edgar?” he asked, despite knowing from previous attempts that the toons wouldn’t respond to him.

Only, he did. Kind of, anyway. Edgar went deathly still before shaking even harder, burying his face beneath his arms.

He was scared, Henry realized. He was actually, genuinely terrified of Henry. He’d never had anyone, not even the skittish Lost Ones, react to him like this. So why now?

Slowly, Henry reached up and touched his halo. _No angels!_ , the room with the Lost Ones had read on the wall. The studio’s inhabitants must be terrified of ‘Alice,’ and with her habit of torturing toons that wandered too close, it was no wonder as to why.

Joey might have started this whole mess, and ‘Bendy’ might have posed a constant threat, but ‘Alice’ had actively sought out ways to fix herself by using others in whatever ways she saw fit. And no one, in all these years, had been able to stop her.

“Oh, kiddo,” Henry whispered, kneeling down next to Edgar. He carefully placed his palm on the toon’s back. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

At his touch, Edgar froze again, the pair of teeth on top of his head clacking together a few times in apparent fear. Not wanting to force Edgar out of his defensive position until he was ready, Henry settled down on the floor next to him and gently rubbed his back.

It took a few minutes, but finally, Edgar hesitantly peeked out at him from under one of his arms. Henry offered him a smile, and above his head, his halo briefly pulsed brighter. Whether it was that, or the fact that he hadn’t hurt or yelled at him, Edgar cautiously uncurled a little more.

And that’s how Henry found himself with a little shadow as he continued on his way a few minutes later, Edgar bouncing along behind him.

Traveling through new hallways, Henry couldn’t help but get lost in thought again, this time contemplating the potential interactions he might have with the studio’s inhabitants. Would they all react like Edgar had, scared and anticipating pain? Would they run from him?

Would any of them attack him?

Henry came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor, Edgar bumping into his legs from the suddenness.

There was a very good chance that ‘Bendy’ would be just as—maybe even _more_ —violent against him than before.

From the way ‘Alice’ had spoken, there was exceptionally bad blood—er, ink—between them. And if his altered appearance had been enough to so badly frighten Edgar, where only an hour earlier, the little toon would’ve gone after him without fear, then ‘Bendy’ would probably react differently to him as well.

He blew out a calming breath. It was no use to worry about that now. He’d deal with the consequences of his predicament when they came.

A tug on his pant leg drew his attention downwards. Edgar blinked up at him and managed to make a squeaky noise without pulling at the stitches around his real mouth. And that was another thing—Edgar and all the others had never made sounds other than grunts of pain when Henry fought back against them, nor had they ever shown any signs of comprehending and responding to him. Now, though, Edgar at least was sure doing just that. Was it a coincidence, or did it have something to do with his and ‘Alice’s strange merging?

Either way, Henry offered his companion a smile. “Everything’s gonna be fine,” he said reassuringly. Edgar nodded.

Now if only Henry could believe it himself.

• • • • • 

At some point in their travels, Henry and Edgar came upon a T-junction, leaving them between choosing to go either left or right.

The first sign that something was wrong came when Henry became aware of a combination of noises—wet, heavy thuds failing to conceal strange, loud clicks. It reminded Henry of something, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

The second sign was the ink. Badly smudged footprints trailed across the wood in front of them, more ink sluggishly dripping from a jagged line stretching across the wall. As far as Henry could tell, someone had moved through there recently, heading down the right hallway.

His curiosity getting the better of him, he inched closer to the intersection, hoping that whoever or whatever had passed by wouldn’t notice them. Sight and sound were how the creatures here hunted him, so as long as he didn’t make any noise and it didn’t turn around, he’d be perfectly safe. Henry leaned forward, heart pounding no matter how much he reminded himself that they’d be fine. The unusual clicks were even growing fainter.

Oh. Broken machinery. That’s what the clicks reminded him of.

The thought came to him right as he peeked around the corner and spotted the source of the noises.

Norman—the Projectionist—trudged down the dim corridor, hand dragging along the wall beside him. Bile rose up in Henry’s throat at the sight of his old friend, for an entirely different reason than ever before.

He was _headless_.

Norman’s neck spurted ink into the air where the projector should’ve been, and a series of gears and other warped metal pieces protruded out of it. Even as Henry watched, one of the gears uselessly spun halfway around before it was forced to click backwards into place. There was nothing connected to it, nothing for it to do, no task for it to complete.

Below him, Edgar followed his example and leaned out around the corner. Unlike Henry’s silent horror, however, he released a startlingly human shriek at the sight of the headless creature.

Of all the things he’d seen in the studio, Henry was sure nothing would give him nightmares quite like the sight of the Projectionist’s body slowly turning to face them.

Pure instinct had Henry taking off like a shot back the way they’d come from, nearly stumbling over himself when his body didn’t protest from pain and age the way he’d gotten used to. Too late he realized that Edgar wasn’t with him, and a glance back showed the little toon had merely crouched down where he’d been standing, hands covering his eyes.

The Projectionist rounded the corner before Henry could even think about going back for him, slamming into the opposite wall before lunging forward.

With his attention on Henry, the Projectionist apparently didn’t even notice Edgar trembling against the wall.

Swearing under his breath, Henry focused on the path in front of him, hoping that Edgar would find somewhere safe to hide. And he ran.

Everything looked the same down here, all broken and dark and empty, and Henry was hopelessly lost within a turn or two. Disconcertingly, with the Projectionist missing his head, there was no light bobbing around behind him, partially illuminating his way. There were no menacing screeches—just those horrible, empty clicks, barely audible over the sound of their pounding feet.

One hallway after another passed by, and Henry wasn’t gaining even an inch of extra space between them. The complete lack of Little Miracle Stations only made the situation feel even more despairing.

 _It could be worse_ , he tried to tell himself.

To not even his own surprise, ‘Bendy’ stepped out of a room ahead of him almost immediately after he switched directions at an intersection. Speak of the devil, and all that.

Henry didn’t so much as have time to hope for the best before he collided full speed into ‘Bendy’s ribcage. He was nearly sent rebounding to the floor—whereas the toon didn’t even need to catch his balance—and the only reason his tailbone wasn’t introduced to the unforgiving wooden planks was that ‘Bendy’s hands shot out and wrapped around his upper arms.

 _This is it_ , Henry thought, _I’m going to die_.

Despite his lack of facial expressions, ‘Bendy’ had an absolutely bewildered air about him for the long seconds where he apparently stared down at Henry. Then, the sounds of the Projectionist approaching seemed to register in his mind. His head briefly snapped in the direction of the ominous thuds, and then he was forcefully yanking Henry into the room he’d just emerged from.

Henry threw himself into a four second long struggle, where all he managed to accomplish was wiggling around to face the hallway and earning a gloved hand pressing against his mouth, silencing him. ‘Bendy’s other arm locked across his chest from over his right shoulder, like a seatbelt.

The ink demon went still behind him, and unable to do much else, so did Henry.

Helpless, defenseless, and appropriately terrified, all he could do was wait for the inevitable.

The thuds grew louder, and Henry found himself trembling uncontrollably. And then, almost fast enough for him to have missed it, the Projectionist passed by the doorway, close enough to touch. He didn’t even slow down.

Another few seconds ticked by, and the rapid thumps grew quieter and quieter, until they faded away completely. Henry’s legs went weak beneath him, and a traitorous thought of gratefulness towards ‘Bendy’s secure grip on him flashed through his mind. He probably would’ve collapsed otherwise

Before any true relief could settle in, ‘Bendy’ spun Henry around, his massive hands holding him in place by his shoulders. His head tilted up in such a way that left Henry sure the demon was taking in his newly acquired horns and halo.

The toon’s grip tightened briefly as he growled. And then, to Henry’s shock, he hissed, “What kinda trick is _this_ s’posed to be, huh?”

With how quietly he’d said it, Henry felt like ‘Bendy’ wasn’t even talking to him, much less expecting an answer. More importantly, though, sheer shock had his jaw dropping, even as he burst out, “You can talk?!”

‘Bendy’ reeled backwards, nearly knocking Henry over from the force he used to shove himself away. “You can understand me?” he cried in a tone that suggested he was just as surprised as Henry was.

Hovering over his head, Henry’s halo pulsed brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISED I’D HAVE THIS DONE SOON, AND I—kinda did as I said? This was supposed to end here, with part two, but lol nope. Instead of a completed story, you guys got an update instead, and it looks like there’s definitely going to be ~~at least~~ a third chapter. Hope you guys don’t mind joining me down this rabbit hole!
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought! I’ve missed talking with you guys! :)


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Bendy’ reeled backwards, nearly knocking Henry over from the force he used to shove himself away. “You can understand me?” he cried in a tone that suggested he was just as surprised as Henry was. 
> 
> Hovering over his head, Henry’s halo pulsed brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we've reached the end. Sorry for taking so long on this one, and thank you all for your patience. There's a lot of talking in this chapter, but hey, Henry can suddenly understand 'Bendy,' so I think it's justified. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Immediately following ‘Bendy’s question, Henry’s mind completely blanked, and with the sort of panic unique only to having an eight-foot ink demon looming over him, looking to be a mere few seconds away from murdering him very painfully, he blurted out, “No!”

Of course, this only further proved that Henry did indeed understand ‘Bendy,’ whose shoulders lost their preparing-to-pounce tension as he stared at Henry in—what, shock, astonishment, confusion? Embarrassment outweighed his panic, and Henry face-palmed.

They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Kind of, at least. ‘Bendy’s eyes were obscured by ink and Henry was barely peeking out through the gaps between his fingers, but it certainly had that feel to it. Like a staring contest or something.

Finally, ‘Bendy’ shook his head and stepped back. “Who are you?” he asked. “ _What_ are you?”

Henry lowered his hand and shuffled his feet. He wondered if he would survive if he tried to run now. Probably not. “I—you don’t recognize me?”

‘Bendy’s instinctual reactions to seeing Henry the human and, presumably, ‘Alice’ Angel was to kill them, but when he saw Henry the angel, the first thing he did was save him. If ‘Bendy’ genuinely didn’t recognize him—and wasn’t that a strange thought; he didn’t look _that_ different, after all—then maybe… maybe he wouldn’t automatically want Henry dead. Maybe they could, essentially, start over.

Willing to hope a little, Henry watched as ‘Bendy’ tilted his head. “I s’pose you look a little familiar,” the ink demon admitted. “But I can’t think of where I woulda seen you before.”

Taking a chance, Henry stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m Henry,” he said. “It’s… complicated.”

‘Bendy’ shook his hand with a little noise that sounded a bit like laughter, and Henry held in a sigh of relief when he didn’t start melting or something. Of course, logically, he knew ‘Bendy’ had been touching his skin earlier but, well—things like logic didn’t last long in this studio.

Even as he was thinking that, ‘Bendy’ was staring down at the contact between them with interest. “You ain’t human,” he said slowly, turning Henry’s gloved hand this way and that. “But you ain’t a toon either.”

“I was human,” Henry told him. Lying would only come back to haunt him, and he refused to waste a potential second chance like that. “But then this happened.” He reached up and flicked his halo. It made a noise like church bells ringing, deep and clear and echoing.

“Did ‘Alice’ do this?” The way ‘Bendy’ sneered her name spoke volumes of his opinion of her.

“She had something to do with it,” Henry said, “but she definitely didn’t intend for this to happen. She tried to kill me herself, but when I came back, she was gone and I was like this.”

‘Bendy’ finally dropped Henry’s hand and raised his head. “You—what? What’dya mean, ‘you came back’?”

Henry shrugged, crossing one arm across his chest to grip the other. “Y’know, when I die and then wake back up. After I walk out of the ink.”

‘Bendy’ stared at him. “You walk out of the ink.”

“Yeah. Just, there’s a light, and it looks like a tunnel, and I—” he gestured forward— “I walk out of it.”

“That’s it.”

“Yes.”

For a moment, ‘Bendy’ seemed to tremble where he stood. Before Henry could ask if he was okay, the ink demon cried, “You _walk_ out of the _ink!”_

Henry frowned. “Yes, why—why is that so hard to understand?”

“Because it’s not possible!” ‘Bendy said. He looked around wildly, as though expecting someone to jump out of the walls and tell him that it was all just a prank. “Even the strongest of us—even we can’t just _walk out of the ink!”_

“Then what does it mean that I can?” Henry asked.

‘Bendy’ went still as a statue. The whole studio seemed to fall silent as he quietly said, “If the ink brings you back to life, it means it wants you to be alive. It’s nature is to take, from us, from humans, from even those who have nothing left to give. The only thing it’s taken from you is a bit of your humanity—and that was probably for your own protection.”

“What do mean?”

‘Bendy’ gestured at himself. “I didn’t kill you, did I? I kill humans, I kill toons. You ain’t one or the other anymore. And you can understand me. Humans can’t, and toons don’t really care to.”

Nodding along, Henry added, “The noises Edgar was making sounded more human, too. Before, it was just gargled nonsense.” He looked up at ‘Bendy.’ “But why would the ink do this?”

“Why does the ink do anything?”

Henry frowned. “You make it sound like the ink’s alive,” he said. A moment later, he remembered that he was, essentially, talking to living ink in the shape of a humanoid cartoon demon. “Never mind.”

He could only imagine the expression on his face, as ‘Bendy’ laughed at him. It wasn’t malicious, though, and Henry found himself longing to see more of the studio’s occupants be happy. And that seemed like as good of a new mission to undertake as anything.

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry said, cracking a smile of his own. “Laugh it up. So I forgot that you guys are alive in a way I’m not used to. I’m only human.”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” ‘Bendy’ reminded him, shaking his head as his chuckles slowed. His smile was more relaxed than the terrifyingly wide grin he’d worn while trying to murder Henry. “Which begs the question: what’re you gonna do now?”

“Stay,” Henry answered, realizing a second after he’d said it that he meant it wholeheartedly. “I think this place could use some help, and, well… here I am.”

‘Bendy’ watched him for a long moment, silent. Henry tried not to squirm.

“For obvious reasons,” ‘Bendy’ finally said, “no one’s ever wanted to stay before. But I have to ask. What do you think you can do to help us?”

A smile slowly spread across Henry’s face. ‘Bendy’ sounded almost choked up about his decision, like Henry’s choice not to leave them meant the world. “Y’know what, ‘Bendy?’ I’m excited to find out.”

Henry turned and stepped towards the door before twisting to look back at the motionless ink demon. He raised his arm, offering his hand to the being that, only hours ago, would’ve gladly killed him on sight.

‘Bendy’s massive fingers enclosed around Henry’s with the same desperation that a drowning man reached for someone out of the water.

• • • • •

By the end of that day, or whatever constituted a day in the studio—“You’ll be able to feel it soon,” ‘Bendy’ had reassured Henry. “You just know.”—Henry knew two things:

One, that with care and concentration, he could slowly manipulate the ink making up the toons’ bodies. ‘Bendy’ had a whole eye visible after an hour of hard work, and Edgar—after Henry had backtracked to find him—no longer suffered from tight stitches criss-crossing his face and lips.

Two, that Henry could definitely communicate with any toon. Even the Searchers had shown a level of greater understanding when he spoke. The Lost Ones remained silent for the most part, but they still reacted to Henry’s words.

It was progress, and it left Henry satisfyingly hopeful that things could get better, in time. Being part toon didn’t seem to matter to his exhaustion, so as soon as ‘Bendy’ had declared the end of the day, he’d flopped down on the first couch he’d come across.

Edgar squeezed himself between the back of the couch and Henry’s side, tucked beneath an arm. ‘Bendy’ slumped down on the floor with his back to Henry, leaning on the edge of the cushions. It felt safe, like he would stand guard while Henry rested.

One of the last thoughts Henry had before falling asleep was how he’d never expected something like this to happen when he answered the letter from his old friend. But, hey. He’d always been pretty good at rolling with the punches.

He would probably always wonder, though: what made him different?

• • • • •

_Why does the ink do anything?_ ‘Bendy’ had asked.

All ink came from the Ink Machine, and the Ink Machine came from a man. And that man, filled with delusions of grandeur and terribly wonderful ideas, formed the Machine from his own mind, and in his mind were memories great and small.

So many of those memories featured his friend, his once-upon-a-time best friend. And sometimes, those memories slipped into the things the man was creating.

If the ink is alive and made from memories, memories which contained a long-lost precious friendship, then is it so difficult to believe that the living ink was capable of acting on on the things it had taken from the man who’d made it?

Joey Drew might’ve gone crazy, might’ve turned cruel, but once upon a time he had a friend worth everything. A friend worth protecting. A friend with a world in his head that deserved to be brought to life.

Long after Joey Drew’s fall, the ink carried on that mindset. Henry Ross was a friend, was to be protected, was to be given a world.

Such are the consequences, perhaps, of achieving the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of the ink taking after Joey in a way that's not bad for once. He cared about Henry, even in his insanity, and the ink picked up on that. 
> 
> I went through three different rewrites of the beginning of this chapter, and I'm very sorry if it feels off or rushed because of it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought! :)


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